


Brandon the Destroyer

by KINGBRANTHEGOAT



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragons, F/M, King Rhaegar Targaryen, Multi, Robert's Rebellion Fails | Rhaegar Targaryen Wins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KINGBRANTHEGOAT/pseuds/KINGBRANTHEGOAT
Summary: “You cannot do it Bran; you know that as well as I do. I may lie to you and manipulate you, but I have also raised you, protected you, taught you, sheltered you; I have been like a father to you.”“NEVER!” he roared. The rage came rushing back, the anger, the resentment, the hate. The roots tightened around Bloodraven’s pale throat and coiled again and again, even as the old Lord’s red-eye widened in shock. “Teacher, yes, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. But Father? Never!”Rhaegar wins AU. Very Canon divergent. Dark Bran. Aged-up characters. Lots of Dragons, lots of war, lots of politics, lots of sex.
Relationships: Aegon Targaryen (Son of Elia)/Margaery Tyrell, Cersei Lannister/Rhaegar Targaryen, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Many more to occur later in the story
Comments: 55
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

“Father, Smith, Warriors, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

King Rhaegar, as Father of the realm, stood in place of her father Lord Eddard Stark and she felt a few tears on her cheeks as he unfastened the grey direwolf on her back and removed the cloak. It felt like the end, the end of her Father’s house, of House Stark, and it took all of her composure to keep a sob from escaping.

Her new husband was not nearly as emotional, his pale eyes were expressionless as he cloaked her in Bolton colors.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.” She said, she, who barely remembered what love was, and knew only that his man’s father had murdered her brothers.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.” he answered. She wondered if he’d ever loved anybody, or if he was even capable of it. Sansa did not know Lord Roose Bolton, but by all accounts, he never smiled, never laughed, never showed any emotion at all. She found herself dearly hoping his son didn’t take after him.

The Septon raised his crystal high in the air and spoke in austere tones, “Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Domeric of House Bolton and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

Those in attendance gave polite applause and Sansa looked down to see her friends beaming at her. She shouldn’t be sad she knew; it could’ve been worse; she was a traitors’ daughter and about to be the Lady of Winterfell. Besides she’d known she was going to wed Domeric for years, and it had never made her cry before.

But now it all felt so real, she glanced again at her husband, his face still blank and dispassionate. Even so, it wasn’t him she objected to, it was his family, she’d never forgotten the Sack, or her brothers’ bodies, not for as long as she lived. It wasn’t Domerics fault of course, he was still a boy, but still marrying him felt like a betrayal.

It was even more painful when they passed the Lannister party on the way out of the sept and Prince Daemon called out to her, “To the Flayed Wolf. May all traitors come to share the same fate.” The crowd around her laughed uproariously and she heard his twin say, “Now we just need to find someone to marry her sister and the wolves can all fade away. Perhaps Ser Gregor would like another wife?” The crowd laughed again, and she thought she saw even Ser Loras crack a smile, but it was probably just a trick of the light, he was far too noble to smile at something like that.

She’d felt tears come rushing back to her eyes even so and became so lost in her dark thoughts it was only her years of etiquette training with her Septa that kept her from embarrassing herself, but she managed, doing everything that was expected of her.

When she got to the feast Domeric was kind and thoughtful though, he’d asked the cooks what her favorite foods were and had them bring those up first. The gifts were splendid as well, from Lady Margaery she received a prized set of jewels and a high harp made of ebony leafed with gold. Princess Daenerys and Lady Royce each gave her dresses and fine jewels, not as thoughtful but lovely all the same. The gift she cherished most came from a lord she’d never even met before, Lord Petyr Baelish who served the Warden of the East in some capacity. He’d been an old friend of her Mother’s and gave her a beautiful Myrish lookinglass with a painting of her on the face, from when she was Sansa’s age. It took Sansa’s breath away and she promised she’d treasure it forever.

When it came time for the dancing King Rhaegar played the first song, and it lived up to the tales told of him, for it brought tears to her eyes. Domeric was an able dancer and she shared two songs with him before Margaery’s 3 brothers took turns dancing with her, and so did Prince Aegon and even her bastard cousin Jon, who she’d been surprised to see. Jon’s Mother had spoken vehemently against the match, but she had even shown up as well and wished Sansa nothing but the best.

When the dancing was done, they sat together and Lyanna told her stories of her father’s youth. “At Harrenhal, he was so quiet, you should have seen him, Sansa it was truly something. When he fancied the Lady Ashara, your Uncle Brandon had to ask her to dance with Ned, he was too shy to ask her himself.” Sansa couldn’t help but smile, she’d known her Father so little, every word about him she cherished.

By the time the dancing was done, and the bedding called her mood had improved markedly. King Rhaegar had taken the Queen and his children aside after the sept and they’d left her alone for the rest of the day. Domeric was so gentle and her friends so kind she could almost forget about the crowd’s smug laughter as she was taken to the bedroom. 

Sansa may have been able to forget their laughs and their sneers but a thousand miles north her brother Brandon never could. The laughs, the sneers, the gloating, it hounded him relentlessly. He had learned to fly, to see everywhere, and everywhere he saw men laughing.

“She didn’t want to marry him.” He said, surprising even himself with the words.

“I could have stopped it.” He continued. The Pale Lord gave no response, but Bran knew he was listening. “I could have stopped it a thousand ways. I could have sent a pack of wolves to kill him, a flock of birds. I could have drowned his ship. I COULD HAVE STOPPED IT.”

Atop his Weirwood throne Bloodraven opened his single red eye, once a frightening visage for Bran to behold, but one he had long since grown accustomed to. “That is not our way. We wield our power for the realms of men, not the whims of a few.”

“The realms of men.” He repeated scornfully. “What have the realms of men ever done for us? They cast us out and hunted us down.”

Bloodraven was unimpressed, “That is Bran the boy talking.” He spoke in his lordly tones. “You must put him aside, and let the man be born.”

_Bran the boy._ That was how it always was with Bloodraven, if he had a thought or an idea the old man didn’t agree with it was childish or selfish. On a normal day, he swallowed it and moved on, but today was anything but normal. “Was it for the realms of men that you destroyed my family?”

If the words surprised him or bothered him, Bloodraven gave no sign. Outwardly he appeared as he always did, but Bran didn’t let it stop him, not today. “6 times the Royal army broke against Moat Cailin. The 7th time they broke the line, because of you.”

“Because they had dragons.”

“Dragons you gave them!” Bran screamed. “You led Rhaegar to dragons’ eggs in his dreams. You taught him how to hatch them. You let them loose against my family.” 

He still showed no shame. “The realm needed Dragons to stand against the long night.”

“Did the realm need Rhaegar too?” Bran spat acidly. “You sent that shadow binder from Asshai. You knew she would murder Robert the night before the trident.”

For the first time the Pale Lord showed some discomfort. “You have flown far and seen much, and you have hidden it from me.” He whispered.

“Answer me” Bran cried. He had not planned on having this confrontation tonight, not all was ready, but he had crossed the Trident, there was no way to back out now.

Bloodraven still refused to show shame, “Robert would have made a terrible King.” he declared. “He was a great warrior and a strong battle commander, but he had no taste for politics and no skill at ruling. There would have been no peace with him on the Iron Throne, nor after his death. There must be a united realm to fight the Others.”

Bran could barely hear his words; the hypocrisy was so thick he was like to choke. “There’s always an answer.” He said in disbelief. “Everything I want to do to help or avenge my family is childish and selfish, everything you do is for the realms of men.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m leaving.” He ground out “I’m going to avenge my family. I’m going to restore my house, no matter what you say.”

“You cannot.” Bloodraven declared. “The realm cannot afford a fracture right now, things are too unstable as it stands, and you have a part you must play here. The Others …”

“Fuck the Others.” He cut him off with a furious yell. “Fuck the realm and Fuck you. I’m leaving and you shan’t convince me otherwise.”

“I cannot allow that.” he said in a mournful whisper, and as he spoke the great Weirwood whose roots they made their home began to stir. Branches reached out and grasped Bran’s small arms and wrapped around his torso and legs.

Bran let out a sigh. Was it always going to end this way, was he just deluding himself hoping it could have gone otherwise? _If so, then so be it._ The words had been spoken, there was no way to take them back now.

He reached out with his greensight and stopped the branches. Bloodraven’s eye widened in surprise and he pushed harder, but Bran was stronger. Much Stronger.

“You were right, I have flown far and seen much. Farther than you ever dared to. And deeper too. I went to the old places without you, the places you warned me never to fly to.” He looked at him and smiled, it was not a pleasant expression. “I spoke with the old singers, in the old trees that have lingered for 10,000 years. I learned from my ancestors, from Brandon the Builder who lingers in Winterfell’s Godswood and Garth Greenhand at Highgarden, and the Children who walked the earth before men ever did. You could not wake them, you were too afraid or too weak, but I could.”

The weirwood roots began to move again, but not around Bran. They coiled and slid like serpents in the grass, running along the cave up the Pale Lords weirwood throne. They didn’t wrap around his arms or his legs though, only his neck.

The Old Lord’s red eye widened slightly. “Are you truly prepared to do that.”

Bran swallowed heavily, his resolve faltering for a moment “You mean to keep me here, to use me no matter what I want. If I leave you here, you’ll never stop trying to bring me back until I give my life for your cause.”

Bloodraven did not deny it. “I must. The realms of men are more important than any one man, any one house. You must play your part.”

His mouth was dry, his hands were shaking. It was so simple, such an easy thing to do, for him no harder than closing his fist, and yet he could not bring himself to do it. But if he didn’t, he’d be imprisoned here forever, or he’d be brought back the first time he stumbled, forced to look over his shoulder forever.

“You cannot do it Bran; you know that as well as I do. I may lie to you and manipulate you, but I have also raised you, protected you, taught you; I have been like a father to you.”

“ _NEVER”_ he roared. The rage came rushing back, the anger, the resentment, the hate. The roots tightened around Bloodraven’s pale neck and coiled again and again, even as his red eye widened in shock. “Teacher, yes, and for that I will be eternally grateful. But Father? _Never!_ ”

There was a crack as the old man’s neck gave way, and Brynden Rivers, Sorceror, Greenseer, Hand of the King for 20 years, and Lord Commander of the Night’s watch finally died.

Bran just stared for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he opened his third eye and summoned the Lord of Bones. A dim, dumb, brutal, beast of a man, but not without his uses. He’d been one of the first men Bran had ever skinchanged into, back when he’d wanted to learn how to use a sword. The brute had known little of swordplay, but he’d allowed Bran to learn and acquire other things of great interest.

In the other man’s body, he brought forth a huge Horn with gold bands and 3 sets of runes along its face and carried it with him into the cave. He walked it to where the Pale Lord’s corpse lay, and cut the other man’s hand to spill blood over one set of the runes. Then Bran released his hold on the Wilding, and as the other man recovered his senses and gained control of his body he walked across the room and cut his throat spilling his blood over a different set of the Horn’s runes.

It was easier than with Bloodraven, there were no mixed feelings about the man, no hesitation, no doubt in his mind the other man deserved death, and no distaste at being the one to carry out the sentence.

As the other man died struggling and gurgling, the Children began to filter into the room drawn there by the commotion, their large yellow eyes shining in the darkness, taking in the scene quickly. One hissed in shock and rage, his hands on his weapons, “What have you done? You killed the last Greenseer. You have doomed us all.” He said in the true tongue.

Bran shook his head, “I am the last Greenseer. And our age is just beginning.” Bran took another knife from the wilding’s corpse and cut his own hand over the third set of runes and the horn began to light up and pulse softly.


	2. Chapter 2

“So” Arya said, grinning up at him, her eyes alight with mischief.

“So” Jon responded, taking a bite out of his bacon, giving her his most innocent expression.

She reached over and grabbed a piece off his plate, before glaring at him. “So Stupid, have you heard anything? Are they really going to call off the wedding?”

The royal wedding, it was all anyone was talking about. It had been scheduled to take place a fortnight after Sansa and Domeric’s wedding, symbolizing healing of the wounds left behind by the rebellion and the ushering in of a new age, or the rebirth of an old age, depending on how you chose to look at it.

Guests had arrived from every corner of the seven kingdoms, some leaving their homes for the first time in years. From the south Lord Leyton Hightower descended from the Hightower for the first time in almost a decade. Prince Doran Martell and Lord Tywin also made the journey, as did Prince Viserys and Daenerys, and even a Greyjoy from Pyke. All was prepared, and yet a fortnight came and went with no wedding had. King Rhaegar had locked himself away the day after Sansa’s wedding and was said to be spending long hours in the library with Marwyn the Mage and Ser Arthur Dayne.

Rumors were abound, but Jon didn’t see why Arya thought he would know anything. “I have no idea; I don’t sit on the King’s councils.”

She pouted. “Come on Jon. You have to know more than us. We just got here.”

He shrugged. “Only what everyone else does. The king told his hand the wedding would have to wait.” Personally, Jon had thought that was an absurd notion, what about all the food and entertainment that had been planned? What about all the guests? But the King’s word was law, and so everyone awaited his final approval.

Arya seemed annoyed with his lack of interest. She chewed on her food for a few seconds sending him a stern glare, before leaning forward to whisper. “I heard someone died. Someone important and the King is trying to find a replacement.”

Jon had heard that too, but it didn’t make much sense to him. He knew everyone on the King’s small council was still alive, and all of the Wardens of the realm still lived. To be honest he couldn’t name a single high-profile figure in court or in the realm that had died in the past fortnight.

“Probably just a rumor.” He said, shrugging. “We’d know if someone important had died.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s a secret. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know who died until he replaces them, so no one can take advantage of their absence.”

“Who’s absence?” Jon said grinning and laughing. “You haven’t spent enough time in the capital. Most rumors are just that, rumors. And even the true one’s are probably more than half lies.”

“I know that.” She said indignantly. “I’m not a child Jon. I’m just saying, what if?”

Jon couldn’t help but smile. For all her insistence that she was not a child, she was certainly the most innocent person left in Jon’s orbit. A strange thing to say about someone who had lost their family and grew up in Dorne surrounded by enemies, but it was true. She’d never lost her optimism or her friendliness or her intellect. She’d turned the Sand Snakes who despised the Starks into friends, a feat Jon was still unsure how she managed.

He opened his mouth to respond when Ser Arthur Dayne caught his eye. He had entered the hall where they were breaking their fast, and was heading directly towards their table, his eyes fixed on Jon.

He felt his back tense and some of the wariness that came from living at court for years creep into him. Ser Arthur was his Father’s closest friend and personal Kingsguard, and if he was heading here that could only mean the King had some need of him. Bad news to say the least.

He was proven right moments later. “Lady Arya” the knight nodded at her before turning to him “Jon, the King has requested your presence.”

Jon nodded, taking one last sip of his water before standing up and following him. He ruffled Arya’s hair as he walked by her and saw her mouthing ‘ _tell me what he says_ ’.

He smiled at her and mouthed back, “ _I promise.”_ before turning back to the Kingsguard. “Do you know what this about, Ser?”

The Sword of the Morning nodded but did not share. “Your father will explain.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, though not towards his Father’s chambers in Maegor’s but rather his private library nearby. Two more knights of the kingsguard guarded the door, Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Barristan the Bold, both his father’s loyal supporters.

They let him pass without a word, and Ser Arthur led him, around the winding staircases and rows of books towards the sounds of voices speaking in hushed whispers that he could not make out.

Ser Arthur called out before they arrived, stopping the whispering before Jon could glean anything. “Your Grace, your son Jon Sand.”

“Your Grace.” Jon bowed slightly, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Rhaegar may have been his father but he’d never stopped being wary of him. Ever since he’d learned the truth about the rebellion and the aftermath, he’d started to see Rhaegar as his King first, and his father somewhere very far down the line.

Beside the king stood the Archmaester Marwyn and the oldest man Jon had ever seen. He was blind with white hair, wearing a maester’s chain that seemed to stretch down to the floor.

“Jon.” The King said, with some emotion passing briefly in his eyes. “This is Archmaester Marywn, who you know, and our great uncle, Maester Aemon Targaryen, who has come all the way from Castle Black at my request. He’s just arrived last night.”

_Great Uncle?_ He’d lived in the capital almost his entire life and never heard any word of a long-lost relative living as a brother of the Night’s Watch.

“Archmaester. Great Uncle.” He nodded to each in turn before turning back to his father somewhat expectantly. Pleasantries and small talk were not his forte and he’d never felt perfectly comfortable around Archmaester Marwyn, nor his Father. Some may lust for a chance to address King and council, but Jon would rather finish his business and be on his way.

His father noticed his discomfort, but clearly did not approve, fixing him with a stern expression Jon did his best to ignore. Still, the King seemed intent on dragging this out. “What did you think of your cousin's wedding?” he asked as if they made a habit of discussing their days with one another.

“It was … appropriate, your grace.” He answered slowly, not sure what else he could say. What was he to do? Rage against the king on Sansa’s behalf? Scorn the match as his mother did? It wasn’t his place, and he didn’t need to be reminded of that again.

“Father will suffice.” The King said sharply, another brief expression flickering in his eyes, hurt perhaps? Or maybe the light was playing tricks on him. Either way it didn’t matter to Jon, he just wanted to find out why his father summoned him, and finish his task, so he could go back to avoiding the attention of the court. Not that this meeting would help him in that regard, he thought bitterly, he’d be lucky to last a day before Cersei or Rhaenys or someone worse cornered him and tried to interrogate him about the conversation.

Rhaegar took no heed of his son’s wishes, no more than he had ever taken heed of his mother’s, and continued this mummer’s farce. “I’m sure you have heard the rumors. Do you have any thoughts about them?”

Any thoughts? _Why yes Father, I have many thoughts. I think your daughter Visenya is a heartless bitch who’d be the worst Queen since Cersei and Rhaenys loves the crown far more than she does Aegon. I think Aegon is infatuated with Margaery Tyrell and you’re setting him up to fail with this marriage._ Is that what he wanted him to say? And then when some spider in the wall or servant in his cups spreads the word that the King’s bastard spoke against two of the King's trueborn daughters, he can earn the enmity of half the realm?

“No Father. I do not put much stock in rumor.” It wasn’t a lie at least, that ought to count for something.

His father continued to stare at him, his piercing violet eyes gazing at him searchingly.

The ancient maester cleared his throat. “Perhaps we might begin your grace? I fear I am not as young as I used to be.”

Rhaegar tore his eyes away from his son and nodded. “Yes, yes, I suppose.” He walked around the table, to the far end gesturing for his son to take up the place he had just vacated.

As Jon walked towards the table his breath caught in his throat. On it sat a tall obsidian candle, black with sharp edges and a circular base, a legendary glass candle. It had no wick, nor wax, yet a flame was lit.

It was no ordinary flame though, it was a dark black, so dark it appeared a hole in the world, and even from this distance he could feel it gave off no heat, but rather it seemed to radiate cold.

“Yes. You understand I think.” His father whispered from across the table. “I have used the glass candles for many years now, their powers have been invaluable in keeping peace in the realm. Then, a fortnight ago, the night following your cousin's wedding, they all went dark, now they cast no light but give off shadows.”

Jon swallowed, avoiding the unnatural flame with his eyes. “What does it have to do with me?”

The old maester gave him a gentle smile. “You have some vestiges of power in you, Jon. We think you may be able to see in the dark, if you’ll pardon the play on words.”

“How?” Jon asked, feeling afraid. _And why him?_ But he left that unsaid, it was obvious why him.

“Try looking in the flames first.” He said with an amused chuckle. “Tell us what you see.”

Jon felt another twinge of fear but obeyed. He turned back to stare at the black, formless flame, that gave off such a disquieting feel.

“What do you see?”

He grunted. “Nothing, A black sphere that looks like a hole in the world.” He looked up annoyed. “How long do I have to stare at it?” It was not a prospect he relished.

“I told you.” Archmaester Marwyn said to the Maester and King, ignoring Jon completely, “Power, yes, but of a different sort. Magic is not addition, as you both ought to know.”

Maester Aemon kept that faint smile on his face. “I’m afraid we may to ask slightly more of you then Jon. Hold out your hand if you would, like so.” He held out thumb and forefinger in front of him, as if he made to grab a quill. “Run your fingers along these edges until you feel a prick in your skin, then hold it over the flame.”

Jon hesitated. Looking into the strange flame was discomforting enough, was he really going to feed it his blood? Was that not what all the stories warned of? Giving blood away in sorcery.

“Go on son.” The King said sensing his concern. “It is safe, trust me.”

He swallowed bile. _My mother trusted you._ He wanted to spit out, but he was a bastard, and his father, the king, so he obeyed. The prick hurt far more than a cut of its size should, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from yelping, but he did as he was told.

For a moment nothing happened and then, as if in response to his complaint, the flame exploded up nearly 4 feet above the tip of the candle, taller than any man at the table. Instinctively he tried to look away but found that he could not. He was paralyzed, his eyes fixed on the flame as it changed colors, from black to white, to the most terrible shade of icy blue. And then all of a sudden, he wasn’t looking at a flame at all.

He was in a dark hall, with statues lining each wall. Each statue was ancient and rusted, and each depicted a stone man wielding a sword with a great stone wolf by its side. And at the far end of the hall, near the oldest of the statues, sat a young boy with an enormous living wolf of his own.

He could be no older than 7, with a head of fiery red hair and tears pouring out of his blue eyes. His little hands were curled into fists as he punched into the thick fur of his wolf again and again. “I’ll them Summer. I’ll kill them all.” A young girl sat next to him stroking his hair, whispering words of comfort.

The wolf growled and turned its great big jaw, but not at the boy, at him. For a moment he met the boy’s hate-filled gaze and saw the wolf take a step forward, before the scene shifted.

The cold hit him first, so cold he thought his blood would freeze in his veins. He was on the deck of a ship, but the ship was not moving. It was entombed in ice with other ships on all sides, thousands perhaps, each one trapped as he was.

He looked down and saw the deck was running red with blood, pouring off the sides of the bow and onto the ice below. He heard voices raised in song, but not in any tongue he knew, not High Valyrian, nor any language of the east, nor Rhoynish of the south.

He looked up and saw the boy again, older though, only a few years younger than Jon, with a long thin, pale blue blade in his right hand, nearly translucent but for the edge that was red with blood.

Corpses surrounded him on all sides, men in ragged furs and manacles, whose blood was still dripping off the hull. He was speaking softly to the great big beast of a man beside him, words Jon could not make out. Eventually the man nodded and lifted a great big horn that must have been at least 6 feet tall. He took one last look at the boy, said something, took a deep breath and blew.

For a second nothing happened, and then the world exploded in ice and water. The frozen sea seemed to become the sky, and great drums beat all around him. Icy winds smashed into him, freezing him to the bone, and just as he thought he really would freeze here, the scene shifted again.

From Ice to Fire, from blood-freezing cold to the most scorching heat imaginable. All around him he saw and felt ash, flame, and smoke. He could barely make out that he was on a mountain, a mountain with a mouth of exploding fire.

A dragon’s roar shattered the earth, and he looked up to see the mountain’s fire meet the sky’s ice. _Not the Sky_. He realized with shock. Just as it hadn’t been the sky before. It was a pale blue dragon, so enormous he mistook it for the sky, with a maw the size of a warship, breathing frost to match the volcano's flame.

For a moment the flames seemed to win, but then the frost left behind water, and the water fell into the Volcano and doused its flames. The dragon roared again before taking off to another great cloud of ash, and as it turned, he saw a glimpse of fiery red hair on its back.

He gasped, as he came back to himself, his mouth dry, and his stomach heaving. He felt a hand on his back as Ser Arthur kept him from falling onto his head.

“Water.” He croaked out, his voice stiff and his throat parched. Ser Arthur handed him a wineskin and guzzled it down without a second thought. The summer wine was sweet against his dry throat, and if he drank too much too quickly and it dulled his senses, so much the better.

His hands were still shaking when he looked up and saw his Father and the two maesters. He was pleased to see they looked as troubled as he felt. It wasn’t just the visions themselves, though they were certainly troubling, it was the feeling like spiders beneath his skin crawling along his flesh.

Glancing back at the candle he saw the light had gone out completely now, not a flame of shadow, but nothing, just a stick of glass. He hoped his father wouldn’t make him light it again.

Still, he wanted answers and after going through, whatever that was, he was going to get them. “What..” He took a deep breath. “Who was he? Who was that boy?”

The King glanced up at him with mournful eyes, filled with sorrow and regret. For a moment it looked like he was about to speak, and then he turned away, grasping a quill to put the visions to parchment whilst they were still fresh.

“Who was he?” Jon repeated again, this time with more force. “You dragged me down here and sacrificed my blood for this vision, the least you can do is tell me what we were looking at.”

“You forget yourself.” A voice thundered from behind him. He whirled around to see Lord Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, standing behind him, with his brother Prince Aegon, and two kingsguard beside them. They must have entered while he was disoriented. “It is not for you to make demands of the King.”

“Peace Jon.” Rhaegar said, speaking to his Hand “It’s quite alright, he has every right to be angry, I did not expect the vision to be so severe.”

The King turned back to his son, with the same regret filled expression he’d worn earlier. “You are right.” He said, the words seemingly tumbling out unbidden. “You have a right to know, but I should not be the one to tell you.”

“Who then?” Jon asked, with note of desperation in his voice. With his brother and Connington here, he’d be lucky to get any answers at all.

“Your mother.” The King said, his voice soft, almost tender. “Tell her what we saw, she’ll know what it means.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He left the library and went to his Mother’s chambers immediately, not stopping for curtesy or ceremony. When he got there, he told her everything, all three visions beginning to end, and she listened without interruption.

When he finished, she laughed uproariously and leaned over to embrace him, kissing him on both cheeks, with tears leaking out of her eyes. “He’s alive. He’s alive.” She whispered.

To say he was confused would be an understatement. He hadn’t seen his mother this happy in years, perhaps ever, and for the source of her happiness to be a vision that would give him nightmares… “Who? Who is alive?” He asked, wishing someone would let him in on the big secret.

“Bran” She whispered, wiping tears out of her eyes and smiling. “Your cousin, Bran. He survived.”

Jon just stared. _Bran? Alive?_ It didn’t make any sense. The only cousin Bran that Jon knew of, was Eddard Stark’s second son and he had died years and years ago after King Stark had fallen at Moat Cailin and Roose Bolton betrayed the remaining Starks at Winterfell. He had been a child when he died, his body presented before the court.

“How..? Mother, what are you talking about?” He said with some irritation creeping into his tone. He hated being the last one to know, and it seemed no matter the circumstances that would always be the case.

She wiped her eyes again, and took his hands in her own, smiling all the while. “What do you know of the Sack of Winterfell?”

Jon felt his expression go cold and his eyes hard, it was a habit learned from years of mockery from Lords and Heirs. Still, he answered her, “Father flew over Winterfell with his dragon, and the royal army charged at the gates. When the defenders came to the battlements and the gates, the Boltons turned their cloak and seized the keep. They killed all the Stark men and opened the gates”

His mother nodded, her expression bitter but oddly triumphant. “That’s what they claimed. Robb was easy to identify, he was little more than a boy, but I’m told he died sword in hand. Bran though…” Her voice trailed off briefly. “Bran was little more than a child, 6 or 7, certainly no older. His body was burned, his face unrecognizable. He had a wolf’s brooch and red hair, and people had seen him in the keep when it went up in flames, so they declared him dead.”

She grinned up at him ferally, triumph in her eyes “It was days later before anyone questioned it. The silent sisters were preparing the corpses for burial and when they washed away the ash and soot, they realized his hair was not red but brown. He’d dyed it. They’d heard from the servants that Bran Stark had a direwolf too just like in your vision, one that followed him everywhere, but the castle was searched, and no wolf was found.”

Jon stared, wanting to believe it for his mother’s sake, but unsure how it could be true. “Even if that were the case, he’d still have been all alone in a castle surrounded by the Royal army. How could he have survived or escaped?”

She smiled, “He was in the crypts. That hall, stone statues with swords and dire wolves, that’s the crypts of Winterfell. They are ancient and deep and a maze to try and navigate. If he found his way to the oldest part of the crypts like in your vision, no one would have been able to find him. He could have had the wolf hunt for rats and the like and made a fire to cook them and still no one would have ever seen it.”

That made sense, all the stone direwolves should have given it away. Direwolves were the symbol of house stark, it wouldn’t have made sense for anyone else to have them. _And that’s why they’d needed his blood, he realized. They were searching for a stark, so they needed the blood of one._

A horrible thought struck him, “But now Father knows he’s alive. And before long Aegon and Connington and the whole realm will know. They’ll know to hunt him.”

She reared back as if struck, pain visible on her face. “How could you say that?” she choked out. “Your father would never hurt him.”

He stared at her, not understanding her sudden change of heart. “Why not? You always said he rewarded the Boltons for killing Robb, that he hated our family. Why would he change his mind now?”

His mother’s hand trembled and her face became a mask of grief. “Jon..” She began, before stopping again. She took a deep breath and reached up with both trembling hands to grasp his face and forced him to look into her eyes. “I should not have said those things. Your father and I, we have our differences, but he is not a monster. He does the best he can.”

“The best he can!” He snarled, tearing himself away from her grasp, and backing away from her furiously. He could scarcely believe it! He’d lived his entire life hearing about how even Rhaegar’s farts smelled like perfume, and now the one person who’d always been in his corner was defending the man too.

It was too much, “Was he doing the best he could when he married you on the Isle of faces and then came back to Kingslanding and named me a bastard and you a whore? Was he doing the best he could when he abandoned us for years on end while he was murdering what was left of your family? Was he doing his best when he did not even acknowledge me for almost a decade?” he roared out, anger in every word.

By the time he was done he was gasping for breath, his whole-body trembling with righteous fury. His mother paid it no mind, she got up from the bed and wiped his eyes dry on her dress, before embracing him.

They sat there for what seemed like an eternity, just holding each other before she finally spoke. “I was younger than you are now when I ran away with him and we wed. I was young and foolish and in love, and most of all I wanted to be free, free to make my own choices and Rhaegar gave me all of that and more.”

She paused for a second to look him in the eyes. “When everything blew up in my face, and my family died all around me I wanted someone to blame, so I blamed your father, even though he didn’t deserve it. Brandon and Father … that was Aerys, a real monster who I thank the gods every day you never had to meet. And Ned, sweet Ned, he was like ice, stubborn and unyielding, your father offered him sweeter terms than any rebel had been offered in the history of the Iron Throne and Ned threw them in his face, time and again.”

She sighed, “I do not blame him for that. Robert, for all that I could not love him, was like a brother to him, and with how he died, Honor would have demanded he fight on.”

“What about the Boltons?” Jon asked harshly. “He rewarded their treachery.”

She gave a sad smile. “The Boltons are hardly the first bannerman ever to turn their cloaks when a war is lost. Rhaegar demanded they spare any Stark that yielded, but Robb died in battle, and Bran disappeared. Even so, your father swore to me that if he ever turned up, he would see to it that the boy was given back his birthright, Boltons be damned.”

He was trembling now too he realized, but he never broke eye contact. _Better to face a hard truth than run from one._ “What about us?” he whispered. “Why did he abandon us? Why did he let me grow up a bastard?”

She gave him another sad look, her eyes filled with pain. “For the realm.” She whispered back. “He meant to settle matters with the Rebels and then ride to Kingslanding with them at his back to overthrow Aerys but Ned wouldn’t kneel, and he didn’t have the men. He needed Lord Tywin and Prince Doran, but they wouldn’t back him against Aerys if you were next 2nd in line beyond Aegon.”

She kissed his forehead and as salty tears ran down his cheeks. “He didn’t abandon us either. He didn’t visit you because I demanded he never speak to me again, and he respected my wishes for as long as he could. I just said that back then because I was so angry at him”

They stayed like that, for a few more minutes, holding one another until his tears stopped falling, and he stopped sniffling. “Thank you.” he whispered. “for telling me the truth.”

She smiled and nodded, reaching behind him to ruffle his hair. “I kept it from you for too long as it is. You should know your Father Jon, he’s a good man, even if he isn’t perfect.”

He nodded at her, giving a tentative smile, still trying to make sense of all he’d heard. Maybe Arya would help him sort through it, and after all he had promised to tell her what he heard. He turned to go before turning back when another thought struck him. “Where has he been all these years then? He could not have grown up in the crypts and the vision…”

His mother sighed before shrugging. “Nowhere that loves Targaryens, of that I’m sure. But it won’t matter, we’ll make him see reason this time. I won’t let any more of our family die, Jon, Targaryen, or Stark.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He found Arya in the Godswood outside the Red Keep. Not a true Godswood, or so his mother always insisted, the heart tree was not a mystical weirwood with a face carved by a Child of the Forest, rather a great oak covered in smoke berry vines, still it was a magnificent tree, and Jon had often visited it since returning to court.

Unfortunately, magnificent also meant large, and when he called out to his cousin, he found she was not alone. Four of the Sand Snakes were with her, the eldest of Prince Oberyn’s bastard daughters, and with them his beautiful older sister, the Princess Rhaenys, whose face was a mask of fury.

“You.” She bit out as she approached, seemingly incapable of even speaking his name. “What did you say to the King?” Her stunning violent eyes promised vengeance, and Jon had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Well, nothing about _that_ at least.” He amended seeing her disbelieving gaze.

“Liar.” One of the sand snakes proclaimed immediately. A slender, black-haired girl, with big black eyes and a widow’s peak who Jon had never met before. That clearly didn’t stop her from despising him though, “I heard from Archmaester Marwyn himself that he met with the king right before Aegon told you the betrothal was called off.” She said, giving him a venomous glare.

“Jon is not a liar.” Arya declared, marching over to join them. ”And I already told you Ser Arthur took him to speak with the King, it doesn’t mean anything. Aegon’s probably lying not Jon.”

“Aegon is not the only one saying it, Arianne heard it from Quentyn and Cersei as well. Face it, the betrothal has been called off for both you and Visenya. Aegon is set to marry that Tyrell whore.” Another one of the sand snakes said, this one Jon at least knew the name of. Lady Nymeria, the second eldest daughter of Prince Oberyn a beautiful woman and deadly. “And your cousin was the last one to speak to the King before the decision was announced.”

Rhaenys bit her lip and turned to Arya, then her cousins, and then finally back to Jon, her expression hard. “I have always been kind to you.” She began, ignoring the fact that she had pretended he didn’t exist for most of his life, “I’ve never mistreated you, never scorned you for your birth, never insulted you. _How could you do this to me?”_ she practically screamed, and he was dismayed to see some tears in her eyes.

Jon felt like he was being punched in the gut. “I didn’t do anything” he insisted. “We did not discuss Aegon’s marriage at all.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that? He asks your opinions on matters of State whenever he sees you.” She said with bitterness in her voice. She was not wrong he reflected, ever since he’d returned to court Rhaegar had made an effort to ask his opinions on policies whenever they’d been together, and to try and pair him up in sparring with Aegon as well. Before he’d scorned the exercises, assuming his father was simply mocking him as a bastard like the rest of the court did, but after speaking with his mother he realized perhaps The King had been making an effort on his behalf, and he had been too prideful to see it.

That would explain Rhaenys’s bitterness, she had wanted to be Queen and eager to help govern the realm but had never been granted the opportunity. Still, that did not make her correct.

“He asked for my opinion on the rumors circling the wedding, that much is true. I told him I did not much stock in rumors and it ended there like it has a thousand times before.” He said firmly and truthfully, he might add.

The Sandsnake he didn’t know gave off a scornful laugh, “And then I suppose the two of you did needlework for the rest of the day?” she asked mockingly.

_The rest of the day?_ he thought confused, glancing up at the sun. But the day _was_ nearly over, the sun was setting, whereas it had been rising when he’d gone to see his Father. No wonder he’d been so thirsty after the vision, it was a wonder he hadn’t been starving as well.

“If you did not speak of Aegon’s marriage, then what did you speak of?” Rhaenys said, her lovely amethyst eyes narrowed.

He hesitated and as he saw her expression harden, he relented. “We didn’t speak at all, he wanted me to help him light a glass candle.” he explained.

“Liar.” That damned sand snake proclaimed again, though this time before she could finish with whatever nonsense she was about to say Jon cut her off.

“Be Quiet.” Jon growled annoyed. “I don’t even know your name, perhaps you can give me that before you insult me again.”

She tossed her hair before turning to him with her dark viper eyes, “Sarella Sand, fourth-born daughter of Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell. I am also an acolyte of Archmaester Marwyn at the citadel and unlike you, _I_ do know how to use a glass candle. It is not something the Mage would need help with, certainly not from a bastard who has never seen a glass candle before, let alone used one.”

“Normally, he would not.” Jon allowed, “But if you knew Marwyn so well you would know that for the last fortnight the glass candles have been dark, not giving off any light at all but a black one, cold and so dark it appears a hole in the world.”

She hesitated for a second, clearly thrown off that he would know that before plowing forward regardless. “How would you be able to help him with that?” she challenged.

He shrugged, “Maester Aemon, our great uncle,” he said, turning to Rhaenys, “came down from the wall and thought my blood would allow them to see through the glass candles again.”

He showed her his right hand, where the jagged candle had cut his forefinger and then the fire had cauterized the wound.

The Princess pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, “And did it?”

He hesitated before nodding.

“What did you see?” She asked.

When he gave no response, save looking at his cousin, she spoke again. “Tell me, I command it.”

He bristled; _I command it._ Rhaenys may not have been unkind to him, but she certainly did not see him as an equal, let alone as he saw her. He was on the verge of defying her out of spite when he saw Arya’s eyes wide and curious as well. _He’d come here to tell her after all, and the story would be out in a few days anyway, was it really worth enraging his sister over?_

Barely a minute passed before he relented but he spoke to Arya instead of Rhaenys, a petty victory but the only one available, “I saw your brother Bran.” He said, “It appears he may have survived.”

Her eyes widened in shock, and she stared at him with an almost painful amount of hope in her eyes even as her words were cold, “Do not jape with me cousin, especially about my family. I do not take it well”

He shook his head. “I am not japing.” He said, “And they are my family as well.”

He took a seat tiredly and gestured for them to do the same. When they did, he told them, of the crypts and his mother’s words, and of all three visions.

After he was done his sister seemed to take another look at him, perhaps the longest she’d ever taken, appraising him, judging him, though for what he could not say. Regardless, it made his heart beat faster and he was forced to look away from her lest his body betray him.

“An ice dragon.” She said, her voice with a hint of wonder in it. “And he was riding it? Are you certain?”

He let some grass run through his fingers and shrugged. “I am certain of nothing when it comes to the vision. But that is what I remember seeing, it was enormous, larger than any beast I’ve ever seen, with a maw the size of a warship and wings that seemed to go on forever.”

He waited a few more seconds before he chanced another look at her, finding her eyes had never left him and her lips were pursed as if she was deep in thought. She looked as if she might say something before deciding against it.

She brushed the dirt off her dress and stood up instead, looking as languid and elegant as only a Princess could. “We shall know soon enough, I suspect. If the first vision was the past, and the third seems it must come after the second, then the second may very well be the present.” She reasoned out.

Then she leaned down a gave him a kiss on the cheek, stunning him to the point of speechlessness. “I am happy for you brother, and for you as well, Arya.” She gave them both a beautiful sly smile. “I hope to meet him very soon.”

With that she turned and left, whispering with her cousins as they went and swaying her hips ever so enticingly. And Jon could not help but notice, this was the first time she had ever called him brother.


	3. Chapter 3

Aurane Waters had been born a dreamer, he’d dreamed of sailing to distant seas and seeing distant lands, of becoming more than a bastard, more even than a mere Lord of Driftmark. He’d dreamed of becoming the Sea Snake reborn, the Velaryon that would return his house to its old glory as second in the realm, behind only the Targaryens.

He’d dedicated his life to that goal as well, spending more than half of it on ships, learning to captain them, and sailing them to all sorts of foreign shores. There he’d seen wonders so beautiful they stole his heart, and terrors so deadly they pierced his soul.

In Qarth he’d met with Warlocks who could appear in two places at once, in Volantis he’d seen priests and priestesses that could bend fire to their will. Through it all he’d steadily increased his wealth and connections, going from a single rundown ship his father had lent him after much pleading to a small fleet and earning the favor of high Lords and Ladies of the court.

Yet it was all coming to an end, for he would die here, he knew, despite what his captors said, in the frozen and savage North, a thousand miles from any civilization. He cursed his crew bitterly every time he thought of it. _How could they have thought the orders had come from me? They should have known, what would I want with savages in cloaks?_

He turned his head to the sound of someone walking near him and barely restrained himself from hurling himself at the boy. It would be fruitless, he knew, that crannog bitch always stood by his side, and those cursed demon children, with their yellow eyes and terrifying speed. Not to mention the direwolves who roamed the ship freely, as large as horses and ten times as deadly.

If the boy knew how much he despised him he gave no sign, “We’ve arrived.” He announced instead, not even deigning to look upon Aurane. “Prepare the ship for impact.”

_Impact._ The stupid boy had clearly never set foot on a ship in his entire miserable life. Preparing for impact would not save them, as he’d explained when he’d first been told about this stupidity. The impact was not what would kill them, when the hull was breached, they’d begin to shed water and soon drown. The boy never listened, _We’ll be able to patch up the hole, never fear._ He’d say, with that infuriating glint in his eyes.

Still when the boy turned to him, he swallowed his pride and gave the orders. He had no choice he knew, not just because the boy had more fighters aboard, and he could seize the ship. Aurane had faced foes like that before, he’d always survived them, through wit and cunning or even sheer strength of his will, he’d prevailed. None of that mattered here, if he defied the demon child, he would lose control of his own body, as he already had many times before.

That was how the accursed Warg had lured him North in the first place. He’d stolen his skin while Aurane slept and gave orders to turn the ship North towards Hardhome. Aurane would remember those days until the day he died, at first, he’d thought he was dreaming, watching himself move around the ship and speaking to his men with no control over his own actions. When he’d gone to sleep in his dream and then awoken again, he’d realized something was horribly wrong. He’d fought bitterly, cursing and screaming in his thoughts, trying to retake his own body, but to no avail. The force that held it swatted him aside as he would a fly and continued on.

He’d been forced to watch in disbelief as his ship turned from the trade-rich ports of the Narrow Sea to the frozen and savage North, leaving behind cargo and gold both. _Surely someone would notice. Surely, they’d put a stop to it._ But no one did. Aurane had trained his crew too well, they took orders from him and him alone, and they did not protest even when he gave orders that made no sense.

So, he’d been forced to watch as his ship docked in that accursed hovel, forced to watch as he gave orders to let the savages onto his ship. He’d only been released after they’d gotten aboard, taken hold, and were firmly in control. Even then he’d tried to fight when the Warg ordered him to take his ship North along the coast and then out into the shivering sea, he’d spat on him and said he’d never give that order, and no one would obey it in any case.

The boy had merely let his eyes go white, let even his pupils fade, and then he took over the crew one by one, before returning to his body and ordering them to sail North, or he would do it for them. Reluctantly Aurane relented, _what else could he do when faced with such power?_

He’d captained the ship as skillfully as he ever had, avoiding glaciers and great big whales, avoiding rocks as jagged as spears sticking out all over this accursed sea. All for naught he knew and was proven right a second later.

The impact was rough and sudden, for all that he’d been expecting it. More than one of his sailors was tossed a few feet from where they stood, one even fell overboard, onto the ice, and was impaled instantly. Aurane kept his ground, for all the good it would do him, and was well-positioned to see all around them when the great white fog cleared before his eyes.

It was as the boy had said, he was in a great bay surrounded by ice, with ships all around him. There must have been thousands here, he spotted one that looked to be painted in the colors of the Freehold. Perhaps it was of the freehold, the water below it had long ago frozen and trapped it here for eternity, just as it would soon trap Aurane.

He turned back to the boy and saw the other's satisfied smile. “You have done well Captain,” he said ignoring the rage on Aurane’s face, “I promise you will not go unrewarded.” 

_Was the reward to be death?_ He nearly spat out but held his tongue. The truth was he wanted to live, even though he did not see how it was possible, and would not jeopardize that for a few cutting remarks. Still, he did not delude himself, there would be no rewards here, the boy may find some treasures on the lost ships, but they’d never able to escape the ice.

The boy had already moved past him, speaking in savage tongues to the little demons surrounding him and then smiling to the crannog girl. “We made it.” He whispered to her as if entombing yourself in ice was some great feat.

A gust of wind came through their ship, so cold he nearly screamed. It felt like needles were inside his lungs when he breathed, and he changed his mind about how he would die. It wouldn’t be starvation or cannibalism, or mutiny or thirst as he’d first feared, he would die of the cold, frozen to death long before anything else could take him.

The boy, however, seemed unaffected, even gleeful. “And they’re here,” he laughed, “waiting for us.” Stupid boy, Aurane wanted to roar, they will be here forever, as will we.

Aurane turned to go back below deck when the boy caught his eye, “Stay, Captain. It will not be long now, and I think you should see this.” With no other option, Aurane obeyed.

He had the last cask of summer wine brought to him and shared it with his first and second mate on the deck. While he guzzled down wine like it was his last day on earth, _and to be fair it probably was,_ he watched the savages go about his preparations. The captives that were brought aboard with them were dragged up in furs and chains and lined up on the ship’s bow.

Some may call him a coward for not intervening, but such men have never stood unarmed with fully grown direwolves glaring down at them. He resolved to freeze rather than be eaten, it was a more dignified way to die at least.

All too soon it began, and Aurane’s bleak apathy and pent-up rage morphed into mounting horror. _This was not what the boy had said would happen!_ He’d been told the captives were here to loot the other ships, they would be sent out at spearpoint to grab as much treasure as they could carry and bring it back. A stupid plan, from a stupid child, but one he could understand from a savage in the North.

It turned out he was the fool; the boy was not here for loot. Instead, the demon children began to sing, in a tongue, he could not understand, but he could feel. He could feel their song in the air, in the wine, inside his head. It was as if the Earth itself was responding to their call.

Without warning the red-haired boy moved, he unsheathed an icy sword and in one swift stroke cut the throat of one of the captives, spilling his blood all across the deck. As the blood flowed down roots seemed to sprout up between the planks, white and tinged with blood. The boy paid it no mind, killing the captives one at a time, and before long they are all screaming.

Screaming for Aurane to save them, for their mothers, for vengeance. But their screams fade as they die one at a time, and the song grows louder and more powerful, and an icy terror begins to enter his heart. _What madness was this? What foul sorcery?_

He chanced a glance at his second in command and saw the same pale face, the same wide eyes. His third in command turned and puked off the deck, the vomit freezing before it even hit the ice. The song seemed to pick up again, growing louder and stronger, and the wind seemed to respond to it, growing faster and colder, and more terrible.

The very ship began to shake and wobble as the wind hit it, and ice began to move beneath them. “We have to do something.” He found himself saying.

He didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t a craven nor a fool. He’d known something was wrong with the boy and his demon children the moment they’d controlled his mind and forced him to come North, but he had ignored his instincts. He had managed to convince himself whatever evil they wanted would be small, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, perhaps they wanted riches or ships, or some trifle he didn’t know of. He’d convinced himself they were simply fools and children, not true threats.

The boy had played into those thoughts, speaking to him of the great wealth of Cannibal bay, as he called it. He hand-waved aside objections that they’d never leave and smiled promising him that they’d use their sorcery to gain prizes greater than he could imagine. He’d appeared to consider Aurane’s bribes before scowling and promising there was more gold here.

Now he saw the boy didn’t want gold, he wanted power, power he had to be stopped from obtaining. He nodded at his lieutenants, and they took his meaning immediately. The wolves had all left them, drawn to the ceremony, and now was the time to act.

He walked slowly, to avoid attracting attention, and grabbed a long knife out of the cabin. His lieutenants each grabbed one as well before they turned their attention back to the boy. He’d killed all but one of his captives now, and the deck was red with blood. Beside him sat an enormous horn he hadn’t seen before and the last of the captives. The child was speaking softly with him, saying words Aurane could not hear, but the meaning was clear enough. _Blow this horn and live. Refuse and die._

Aurane did not intend to give him that choice. He nodded to his lieutenants and spoke softly. “Kill the Crannog bitch first, then the leader. The rest are distracted. Chett, you fetch the rest of the crew.”

They both nodded their understanding and with a deep breath he charged. There was no war cry, that would only alert their foes, but they rushed across the deck with knives in hand, as fast as they dared with the deck slick with icy blood.

He was a half-step behind his first mate when one of the wolves pounced, an enormous grey and black one that seemed to move like the wind, and all of a sudden Larrock was on the ground with his throat bit open. Two more wolves pounced on Chett, and he found the Crannog bitch had turned around as well, her eyes hard and her spear out.

Aurane dove, intent on killing at least one but she danced back with sure feet, and cracked his jaw with the spear butt, knocking him to the deck. She kicked the knife out of his hand and hauled him to his feet, with her own knife at his throat.

“King Stark told you to watch.” She said, her voice tinged with malicious glee.

_Stark._ The boy was a Stark. The direwolves, the demon children. These were the children of the forest, and the roots were of weirwoods. It all seemed to come together at once, he hadn’t been chosen by accident, or by chance, or whatever lie the boy had told him.

He’d been chosen because he shared blood with Targaryens, he’d dragged him North to see this. To see something terrible.

It didn’t take long, the horn sounded, and it was a terrible thing to hear. A sound like the scratching of steel and steel, but a thousand times as loud and a thousand times as unnatural. The moment it faded the ground shook, it seemed to pulse and roll beneath him as if he were on a twenty-foot wave and not entombed in ice.

And the sky split open, a great white cloud climbed from the ice and flew towards them. Not a cloud in truth, a dragon. Its eyes were enormous and beautiful, a mesmerizing blue. Its wings were great crystals that seemed to go out forever and its maw was so enormous it could swallow the warship they were on in a single bite.

The dragon roared as it surged forward, landing on the ice and leaping across to be level with the ship. Its enormous maw was moments away from devouring them when the song reached its zenith and the dragon abruptly stopped. He appeared frozen, hanging in front of them, and then ever so slowly his jaws closed until it seemed to be staring eye to eye with the Stark.

The boy turned to the wildling captive again, nodding slightly, and the captive took another breath and blew the horn again, setting his teeth chattering and his ears and head pounding. The dragon seemed to hiss out frost but gave no other movement, and the boy began to approach.

Step by step he grew closer until he reached out and touched the bottom of the beast’s enormous jaw. He turned back to the crannog women and smiled, before grasping a jagged icy scale on the side of the beats neck and he began to climb.

The song remained at the same incredible volume as the boy ascended the dragon’s neck, the Children chanting the same unintelligible words, like a prayer. Aurane had his own prayer, _Fall Down and die._ Fall down and die, damn you. Fall down and die and save the world incredible pain and suffering.

The boy could never win a war, he knew, the Targaryen’s had too many dragons for that. One would never defeat them all, no matter how large. But this beast could kill many before it was felled, and it was large enough to destroy a castle in a single pass, far larger than even Balerion had been.

His prayer went unanswered as the boy completed the climb and mounted himself firmly on the dragon's back. Aurane could not see it, but somehow, he knew what was happening. The Stark boy took the skin of the captive and blew the horn again, for the third time.

The man fell down and died, but the dragon rose, climbing into the air, leaving behind gusts of wind from each flap of its enormous wings, so cold they seemed to freeze him through his cloak.

The song had stopped now, and the children of the Forest joined everyone else in looking up in awe, as the great beast circled the sky.

The crannog women laughed openly, taking her knife off his throat and grinning at him with triumph. “We told you, treasures beyond price.”

“For him, we’ll all freeze and die here, You as well as me.” He spat.

As if a response to his words the dragon dove from above, its claws surrounding the enormous ship and digging into the ice. A single beat of its massive wings later and suddenly they were climbing, cradled in by the dragon’s claws.

The girl wiped the blood off her knife and gave him an infuriating laugh, “You were saying?”

\---------------------------------

The flight south was all the Bran had dreamed it would be. Every breath of fresh air, every beat of his powerful wings, every thrum of power that filtered through him. He’d been reborn again, with the might of a dragon.

Once he had been small, weak, insignificant, scrawny, and afraid. Now though, now he could feel his wings, so large he could put a town underneath them, he could feel the Ice inside of him, he felt like he could freeze the world. His jaws could swallow a blue whale whole, he could wrestle a Kraken.

He touched down at the Weeping water, a few hundred meters from the Dreadfort, putting the ship in the river before he took to the sky once more. He heard the shouts of the guards, and the screams of the smallfolk, but he paid them no mind. Did boots listen to the screams of ants? He climbed into the sky once more and descended upon the castle from above.

He bathed it in Frost, freezing the walls and shattering them like glass. He tore through the battlements and the keep in a single breath and let his tail smash into the other wall tearing stone apart before rising for another pass. 

Nothing would remain of the Dreadfort, he’d promised himself that a thousand times, he remembered from somewhere. It took three passes, but he accomplished his goal.

The castle that had once been so strong was gone, nothing remained but rubble. Seeing it did nothing to quench his thirst for revenge though. _What was left in the castle to destroy? A few Bolton soldiers? Roose’s bastard?_

The real prize was Wintefell, the home they’d stolen from him once. That was where Roose was and his new Frey wife and their children. He did not remember much of his prior life, but he remembered his hatred, his friends and his enemies. He descended again and lifted the ship into the air, ignoring the shouts from below.

Meera, he remembered. This wasn’t part of Bran’s plan. Bran had planned to destroy the Dreadfort and then send a raven to his lords announcing his return. He’d order them to call their banners and then march and retake Winterell with their strength. They’d send Aurane south to showcase their strength to the Targaryens and win back their independence.

Perhaps Bran had planned that once, but that was a different Bran. That Bran had never become a dragon, never felt such power and such fury as he felt now. _What was mercy to a dragon?_ Besides, what did it matter, killing the Boltons or capturing them, or the guards or anyone else on Earth for that matter? Their lives were small and short, a few years of fire burned within them, and then it went out. They faded away like summer snows. Ice was forever.

He was Ice now, he was eternal and as old as the dawn itself, and they had dared to cross him. He set the ship down on land this time and climbed into the air again. He heard shouts in the yard, and at the battlements just as he had at the Dreadfort, and just as they had at the Dreadfort they all froze.

Wintefell dwarfed the Dreadfort, of course, but he did not need to destroy it all. The Godswood he would keep, and the crypts where his ancestors lay. The outer walls were strong and relatively unmanned, they too would remain. The First keep was near empty, he saw with his third eye, and the library contained only the maester, so he allowed both to remain. The rest froze, beginning with the Great keep, where Roose Bolton sat eating his supper.

A single-pass left all the denizens of the great hall frozen into position, but that could not be allowed to stand. Bolton’s frozen in a Stark place? _Never._ So he made another pass and ripped it apart with tail and claws, until the ceiling shattered and all the bodies within. Two more passes and the keep itself came apart, with a little push. He devoured the guardsman on the training grounds and bathed the stables and barracks in another wave of frost, freezing them all in position.

When the major buildings fell, he reached out with his third eye again and began to hunt down the survivors. A few guards were still alive around the rubble of the barracks, nothing a little ice couldn’t solve. More had fled to the Godswood, which required a little more finesse.

He hunted them from above, using only his tail, it was not easy, but it was sporting. It reminded him of the games Bran had used to play, so long ago with someone, who had been important to him once, but who he could not remember. A few shot arrows up at him, but they did not faze him. He was too large, too enormous to be felled by such things.

All too soon it ended, not a human remained living in the castle, save the master who he would use. He landed and tried to dismount only to find he could not. He had to tear his mind away from his… from the dragon’s body. The moment he did it felt like his shattered in two. He could scarce remember how to breathe, how to sit. _He was so small, so fragile. How could something that small live?_

It nearly sent him stumbling to his death, he fell off the dragon’s neck and had to clutch a scale on the way down. The dragon turned to let him off or he would have died, but when he got to the ground he’d forgotten how to walk, how to stand, he retched up everything in his stomach and stumbled to his knees.

The dragon let out a terrible roar and flew off and he could barely remember where he was, what he was doing. He retched again and crawled, unable to remember what it was like to walk. He couldn’t remember his name.

He didn’t know how long he stumbled around the yard, crawling and searching, though for what he could not say. Tt could have been hours, it could have days but the tree saved him. It called to him and directed him and when he arrived, he looked upon the Weirwood and he remembered, he remembered his name. _Stark._

At the tree's command, He threw himself towards the roots and dug them up. He ate them unwashed, with his fingers bloody and bathed in frost, but they did the job. Before long he was amongst the trees again, and he began to remember, began to see.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place slightly before the previous chapter, just in a different POV. We get to see what's happening down south a little bit more, and the fallout from Rhaenys/Visenya being spurned by Aegon. Also, we meet Aegon for the first time and learn a little bit more about his plans and Rhaenys's plans.

“Will you take another cup with me, your grace?” Lady Margaery smiled at her coyly “It is a grand vintage.”

That it was, the finest arbor gold, dated 50 years after the conquest. No wine ever tasted so sweet. But Rhaenys was of Dorne and preferred stronger brews.

“Perhaps later.” She said smiling back pleasantly. Her cousin Arianne refused as well, with a less gracious wave of her bejeweled hand. They were both eager to get this underway.

They were enjoying a late lunch in one of the terrace gardens outside the Red Keep, at Aegon’s invitation. Margaery and Aegon were seated on one side, while she and Arianne were on the other. The food had been a stuffed lamprey pie, flaky and delicious. The wine fine vintages from the Arbor, one and all, and it must be admitted that Margaery kept a lively court. Multiple singers had played while they ate, some brought up all the way from Oldtown.

When at last the singers had been dismissed Margaery had cheeses and deserts brought out and done her best to charm them. She’d laughed freely and smiled often, regaling them both with embarrassing tales of her youth and Aegon’s squiring that set Aegon squirming.

Rhaenys had smiled a few times, perhaps even laughed a time or two, but her heart remained hard. Jokes and smiles were not going to make her forget Aegon shaming her before the entire realm nor that Tyrell whore stealing her crown.

She didn’t even have to glance at her to know that her cousin felt the same. She had spent most of the conversations laughing a bit too hard at Margaery’s lighthearted stories about Aegon and mocking him whenever the opportunity arose. Now she seemed content to ignore their presence entirely, languishing in her chair admiring her rings as they caught the sun. Rhaenys did not blame her though, Aegon had already stolen Rhaenys’s birthright and now schemed to steal Arianne’s.

Eventually, the small talk came to an end though and they finally began discussing what they’d all come here for. Aegon grimaced at them both as he began, glancing slightly at his betrothed and then plunging ahead. “Sister, Cousin,” he said, “I know we have quarreled in the past, but we are of one blood, and I wish for us to be friends again.”

“As do I,” Rhaenys affirmed keeping her pleasant smile affixed on her face. Unlike Aegon, Rhaenys was old enough to remember the Tourney of Harrenhal and her mother’s expression as Rhaegar rode by. _Never let them see you rage or cry._ Her mother had taught her that.

Aegon must have caught some whiff of her insincerity though because he reached a hand across the table and grasped hers, leaning forward to look her in the eye. “Truly, I mean it, sister. I do not mean to shame you nor to hurt you. I make my plans only for the good of the realm.”

Arianne scoffed. “You make your choices because you are still a little boy scorned. Do not pretend it is otherwise.”

Aegon flushed red, and Margaery put her hand on his stopping him from taking the bait. It was an old wound but one Aegon had nursed for years. When they’d been little more than children Aegon had been enamored with Arianne and wanted to take her to bed, but he was young and his kisses and touches clumsy and Arianne soon moved on to other suitors.

Rejection was not a dish Aegon was often served, and he found he did not like the taste. When he came to learn that Rhaenys too had kissed other boys he called her a whore and swore he would never marry her nor any other ‘Dirty Dornishwomen’. A promise he kept. 

Aegon denied the charge, “Ancient history has no bearing on my decisions today.” He declared turning to Rhaenys. “I would have gladly married you, Sister, were I free to do so, as it is, the realm’s needs come first.”

That finally broke her pleasant façade, “You say you do not mean to insult me in one breath, and in the next tell me that I am unworthy to be Queen.” She growled, “Say what you mean Aegon, leave the pleasantries to your new betrothed.”

Aegon glared at her but obliged. “Our father brought dragons back to the realm, but it falls to me to keep them and ensure that we do not destroy ourselves as we did last time.”

He picked up his goblet of wine and stood up, walking towards the balcony. “Maegor the Cruel, the dance of dragons, the Blackfyres, nothing good ever comes of a throne with too many claimants. If I were to have wed both you and Visenya and you both had children, I would have set the stage for another dance.”

She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off and continued. “Were I to wed you and not Visenya, I would have alienated Daemon, Visenya, and Daeron even more than I already have. To say nothing of the madness that has come from marrying brothers to sisters. We must put a stop to that as well if our family is to remain strong this time.”

Rhaenys looked at him with disbelief, before turning to Margaery and her infuriatingly insipid face, “Is this what the Roses are telling you? If so, their advice is as weak as their wine. If we dilute our lines too much, we will lose the ability to ride dragons.”

“Not so.” Margaery said placidly, “Prince Quentyn rides a dragon, and he is the blood of the dragon a hundred years back.”

At his mention, Arianne’s wroth was awoken. “Do not speak to me of him. I know you two plot to steal my birthright. A fine way to begin your reign, Cousin.” She spat the last word like a curse and turned her dark eyes on Aegon in challenge.

He met them unflinchingly. “Prince Quentyn seeks to steal nothing, he has your father's support, and when the time comes, he will have mine. It’s past time Dornish law changes to match the rest of Westeros. We are one realm now not seven kingdoms, with Dornish blood on the throne.”

Pain flashed in Arianne’s eyes as he threw her father in her face. Rhaenys reached over and squeezed her cousin’s hand. “And Princess Arianne will have my support and most of Dorne’s.”

Aegon scowled, turning red again. “Do you think of no one but yourselves? A ruler's first duty is to his people and to his descendants, not to his own whims.” He proclaimed before turning away as if he was sharing some great wisdom with them. Not his own words, surely, probably some Tyrell Maester he was parroting.

“A ruler ought to defend his family’s rights and uphold the law, not spurn them out of petty pride.” Rhaenys shot back.

“My love.” Margaery said soothingly before Aegon could respond, standing up and placing her hand on his shoulder “Perhaps we should speak on what we discussed.”

Aegon turned around and tried to look regal before nodding. “Father named me Aegon, after the conqueror I suppose, but he fulfilled that role at the Trident and Winterfell. I mean to be the conciliator instead and bring Westeros together again. The Starks have shown us the danger in having Lord Paramounts run their own domains with no ties to the throne, the North held out behind Moat Cailin for years, costing tens of thousands for their pride, and all their bannerman joined them.”

He paused to take a breath before continuing on, “We must bring all the realms under one banner as Jahaerys did in his day, but we must go even further than him and settle all the issues that plagued our ancestors once and for all. One law from the Wall to the tip of Dorne, for inheritance and disputes, one army to be commanded by the King alone, and one vow of loyalty for knights as well as nobles.” He had a passion in his voice by the time he finished, staring at each of them with blazing purple eyes as if daring them to speak out against him. It was clear he'd given this a lot of thought over the years.

Lady Margaery added her voice to his, “We need your help to achieve these things for House Targaryen and for the realm. For my part, I would dearly love to bring back the Good Queen Alyssane’s women’s courts and I would be deeply honored if you both would join me in that. Your wisdom and grace would surely be invaluable to uniting the Kingdoms.” She said humbly.

Aegon nodded, “You are both my family, help me rule, don’t fight me.” He beseeched them reaching out a hand and turning first to Rhaenys. “Willas Tyrell is a good man, you will find no better husband in the 7 kingdoms, Sister. “Then he turned to Arianne and spoke with the same zeal, “Tyrion Lannister is clever and cunning, if you could look beyond his size, he would make a fine husband to you as well, Cousin. I know you crave wealth and influence, and you will have it there! If you wed Tyrion and join Margaery’s councils you will have a voice in the ruling of the realm and be Lady of the West, the richest and most powerful of the 7 kingdoms.” He finished with earnestness in his eyes, as if he truly believed that he was offering them a kindness.

Rhaenys was speechless, first, he spurns her, then Arianne’s rights and now he spouts some Tyrell nonsense about bringing the kingdoms together! She glanced at her cousin and saw the same shock and rage in her gaze. “I would sooner hurl myself off this balcony than wed the imp.” She declared, her dark eyes glittering dangerously.

“He is a good man.” Aegon protested, “Clever and cunning, and the heir to Casterly Rock besides.”

“Then you wed him.” Arianne spat. “I am the heir to Dorne and I will not be forced aside. Make all the plans you wish with your Tyrell whore, pray remember it was only Dorne that resisted the Conqueror and it was Dorne that sacked Highgarden.” With one last venomous glare, she stood and left and with one last glare at Aegon, Rhaenys followed her.

There was nothing left to say, save that Father should have never let him squire for Garlan Tyrell. He was more rose than dragon now and was as grasping as any upjumped steward. The Iron Throne and his choice of consort were not enough for him? He would sell off his own blood and seize the rights of his Lords too?

Rhaenys was so angry she could barely keep quiet on their walk back to their chambers.

When they arrived she began to rage at once, “How dare he? He is not King yet to dictate to us, and did you hear that Tyrell whore? She thinks herself Alysanne come again, though Alyssane rode a dragon and she only rides cock.”

Arianne agreed her bountiful bosom heaving with fury. “He will pay the price for his arrogance.” She announced, a cunning smirk on her face.

At that Rhaenys drew back, “How?” The sandsnakes were fond of poisons she knew, and each as dangerous as their father. But Aegon was her brother still, grasping and domineering fool that he was, and the crown prince besides. She could not let something like that happen.

Arianne saw her fears and assuaged them, “Oh nothing like that. _Some of us_ value kinship still. He has made his wedding the talk of the realm, and the greatest tourney since Harrenhal. He has had golden roses made up into the crown, to honor the stewards, but she will never wear them. Darkstar has agreed to ride, and wear my favor, it will please me to see him knock Aegon into the dirt.” 

Rhaenys raised her eyebrows. She had not heard Ser Gerold was in the city, and did not approve, to tell the truth, but held her tongue. Arianne would be chastised enough by her father, though that was probably why she did it.

“Who will champion you?” Arianne asked, her dark eyes sparkling. “What better humiliation than to have your champion unhorse Aegon and crown you, at his own Wedding Tourney after he spurns you.”

What better humiliation indeed. Perhaps there was an opportunity here to accomplish two goals with a single stroke. She did not say that though, preferring to keep her thoughts to herself until her plan came together, “We should tell Visenya as well, give her time to convince Ser Jaime to ride, or summon Gregor Clegane. She has many knights who could unhorse Aegon.”

Arianne wrinkled her nose, “I’d sooner not see that bitch crowned either.”

Rhaenys smiled gently, “For certain. But better to get another bite at the apple.” She reached over and grasped one of Arianne’s heavily adorned hands. “Will you tell her for me.” She asked.

Arianne pouted. “You’re plotting without me you little minx!” she cried. “Who do you have in mind, that you will not share him even with your dearest cousin?”

Rhaenys laughed. “Go and tell her. You will see in the tourney, I promise you. And if all goes to plan, it will be a humiliation like none other.”’

Arianne pouted again but obliged, giving her a kiss on the cheek before she sauntered out of the room. Rhaenys waited a few minutes and then left as well intent on a different set of chambers.

When she came upon them she did not wait without or announce herself, she merely walked in as if the chambers were her own. Her champion was not in his sitting room, nor bedchamber and she prepared to leave disappointed until she heard a splash and saw him in the bath, truly she could not have picked a better moment if she had tried. “Brother” She greeted him with a playful smile.

He yelped, and sat up suddenly glaring daggers at her. “Rhaenys” he grasped out. “You didn’t knock.”

“I am a princess” she sniffed haughtily, “I do not need to announce myself.” She took a seat on a hard stone bench outside the bath and waved a hand at him. “Don’t let me stop you.”

He continued to glare at her, but sat back down stiffly, in more ways than one. “What do you want?”

She laughed and tossed her hair, “To visit with my dearest brother of course.” She simpered. He gave her no response save a hard stare, made less intimidating by his unwillingness to move from beneath the soapy water. Taking pity on him she cut to the heart of the matter. “Tell me, do you joust?”

He scowled at her again, “No I sit around knitting all day.” He scorned, “Of course I joust.”

To tell the truth, she did not know too much of what he did all day. Rhaenys had lived in Dorne for years while he lived with his mother … somewhere. In the last few years, when all of Rhaegar’s children had found themselves in the Red Keep Rhaenys had only seen him for events and the like, other than that she was always with her ladies, flying, or preparing to rule.

Though often enough she would find herself in the training yard or watching tourneys, and she had never seen Jon at either. She told him as much “I have never seen you in the practice yard. Did you give it up when you came to court?”

He scowled again, “I grew tired of the whispers and sneers years ago and started to practice outside the castle.”

That explained it but did not bode well for his skills. Still, she had known that all along, while it would be beautiful to see Aegon unhorsed by his bastard brother, and be crowned by him, it was unlikely, to say the least. Unlikely, but worth a shot, and it would inflame Jon, which would be useful in the future.

“Who trained you, dear brother?” She asked, smiling innocently.

He looked sullen but replied, “Ser Lyn Corbray” He spat out with venom in his voice as talked about his old teacher, “He was the only one who would.”

That was surprising, to say the least. Lyn Corbray was as dangerous a man as any in the 7 kingdoms, ruthless and cunning, and cruel, but an exquisite swordsman. He’d won more than one tourney in the past few years, at court and in the Vale, and spent a fair amount of time in the Capital, but he must have hidden his training Jon quite well for it to escape notice.

Still, it served her purposes surprisingly well that he was well trained. “Excellent brother, I am proud of you. Tell me, Are you a knight?” She said raising an eyebrow, continuing to put on her pleasant façade.

He shook his head, “I keep the Old Gods.”

Even better. In her experience knights were annoyances. Oh, they would do whatever you asked of them, same as any ordinary cutthroat, but you would have to listen to them bleat about their vows and status first. Better an honest killer than one hiding behind chivalry.

She grinned at him again, this one genuine. “That will serve our purposes very well I think.” She said, standing up and grabbing his towel.

“ _Our purposes?_ What purposes are these?” he asked his tone more than a little wary.

She shrugged over her shoulders and shot him one last impish grin. “Meet me in the passage under Maegor’s behind the Throne room after supper, and I promise you won’t regret it.” She tossed the towel back to him and sauntered out, whistling a merry tune.

\---------

“Are you japing with me sister?”

Rhaenys smiled, “Not at all, brother. Is black not your color?” She asked, her eyes sparkling. It had taken the armorer several days to put it together and cost more than a pittance, but it had lived up to all of Rhaenys’s hopes. A beautiful set of black and grey armor with a rather poignant crest; A weirwood tree, with red eyes weeping blood.

It was a rather haunting image, Rhaenys had to admit, but one she most enjoyed. The design was sure to spark some fierce debate and would ensure the mystery knight that wore it was never far from the public’s lips. If Jon proved a competent jouster it would guarantee that every commoner and knight from Dorne to the Wall would be there to see him unhorse Aegon; something Rhaenys dearly craved.

Jon did not share her enthusiasm. “You cannot seriously be asking me to do this.” He hissed in a furious whisper as if he were afraid of being overheard at any moment. “I might as well volunteer myself for Rhaellon’s next meal.”

She laughed. “Do not be so dramatic, dear brother. The King would not allow him to harm you.” At least she didn’t think he would. Rhaegar spent far too much time trying to make amends with his bastard son and the boy’s mother to condemn him so easily. Besides, if Jon won Rhaenys would be happy to protect him herself.

Still, it was obvious he was far from convinced. His posture was ramrod straight, ironically mirroring Aegon’s when he’d found Arianne abed with her paramour. There was a similar glimmer in his eyes too: lust, anger, jealousy, fear. He wanted to compete, she knew then, desperately, but he was afraid. Afraid of what though? Defeat? Was he craven?

She dismissed that as soon as it came to her, they had not spent much time together through the years, but enough for her to know he wasn’t a craven. He bore no resemblance to Aegon’s puppy Sad Sam Tarly, as she had dubbed him. No, he was not afraid of jousting, nor of Aegon’s dragon despite his words, he was afraid of Rhaegar or his mother. His next words confirmed her suspicions.

“I am a bastard.” He declared, as if it were some great secret come to light. “If I unhorse Aegon at his wedding feast, before the entire realm, they will think me Daemon Blackfyre come again.”

“There will be a great many angry Lords.” Rhaenys allowed, “Though, a great deal of them hate you already.” She smiled sultrily and raised her eyebrows suggestively, walking towards him ever so slowly. “The question is,” she purred, “how your sister should feel about you.” “Should she hate her brooding brother too?” She ran a delicate hand through his hair, staring into his grey eyes. “Or perhaps she should be grateful to her brave brother for avenging her honor?”

They just stared at one another for a moment, and she couldn’t help but smirk. It was almost too easy, she’d seduced a dozen men to do her bidding and not one of them had wanted to do it half as much as Jon did. They wanted to please her of course, but they did not have the same yearning desire that Jon had to defeat Aegon.

Perhaps he saw the arrogance in her eyes, or perhaps he had more self-control than she knew, but either way, he surprised her then. His hand shot out and gripped the arm stroking his hair, and she gasped in surprise as he held her wrist firmly. “I’m not a plaything, Princess.” He hissed out gripping her arm tighter still. “Nor am I a fool. I want you, aye, but do not pretend to want me. You want to use me in your games and then throw me away, and you can find someone else.”

She could do naught but stare as he turned and walked away, footsteps echoing in the dark chamber. A few fools had done this to her before, turned her down, and walked away, but they always stopped at the door or took slow and measured steps. They were not truly turning her down, they just wanted to hear her plead, wanted to feel important for a few moments. It irked her pride but cost her only a few sweet words.

Jon didn’t stop at the door though or walk slowly, he just marched out of the room and into another one of the passageways his long footsteps echoing through the tunnels. Rhaenys had to run to catch him, another thing that irked her. _Who did he think he was?_ It wasn’t like she was asking him to duel Prince Oberyn, like she had another suitor, or pet her sleeping dragon either. She just wanted him to do something he already wanted to do! She even purchased him a new suit of armor for it.

By the time she caught him, he was halfway up a set of stairs, and she could see light coming in from the hallway. She grabbed his sleeve furiously, and it took a great deal of self-control to remain quiet, so they weren’t overheard by anyone above them.

“What kind of a man are you?” she hissed. “Are you a craven? Is that it? You say you desire me but do nothing to defend my honor when Aegon spurns me in front of all 7 kingdoms! I’ve known stable boys with more balls than you.”

Jon glared right back at her, “Then have one of them joust. Unlike those stable boys, I know you, we’re not Florian and Jonquil and you’re not going to run off with me. You want me to put a target on my back and for what? A thank you? Maybe a kiss on the cheek?” he scorned. “Find someone else.” He turned his back on her and continued to climb.

Rhaenys pulled him off the stairs incensed. Men didn’t dictate her, certainly not bastards far below her station. When he turned back around to face her, she slapped him in the face, hard. “You do not turn your back on me.” She hissed. “I am a Princess of the Realm, I will not be scorned by you.”

The slap echoed in the small passageway and she found herself breathing heavily with anger, her temper more than aroused. Jon’s grey eyes were cold as flints of ice as he studied her, a hand on his cheek where one of her rings had made a cut. In the torchlight with the intense gaze and cold eyes, he almost looked like Rhaegar, like a true dragon. Perhaps he was one. Either way, he was wrong, this was not a game that she’d played on some suitor, it was more than that. She had plans for him, plans that went far beyond this one tourney, and perhaps it was time to dip a toe into them.

She smirked at him and reached out a hand to run through his hair, but this time he grabbed it before she could, pulling it down by her waist, clearly intent on not going through this mummery again. It didn’t bother her though, she met his cold eyes and then without warning leaned in and gave him a kiss on his lips.

His eyes widened almost comically, and his lips barely moved by the time she leaned back her eyes shining. “They were lesser men, not the blood of the dragon.” She tugged at her arm that he was still holding, and he released it without comment. “If you unhorse Aegon I will distract the dragon keepers so you can claim a dragon. And if you manage that, “she said, cupping his chin gently with the hand that had just slapped him. “Perhaps you might claim another one.” She whispered kissing him again, this one he responded to vigorously, grabbing both of her wrists and plowing into her mouth with his tongue.

By the time it was done they were both breathing hard and slightly disheveled. No words were spoken as she straightened up and walked past him out of the hidden passageway, but she was unsurprised when a mystery knight came upon her as the tourney began asking for her favor. Years later she would wonder how Westeros, or indeed the world would have been different if she’d said no, or never put her schemes into motion, to begin with.


End file.
